The air, thick with the scent of lilies and the palpable sorrow of those gathered, seemed to shift with the child’s words. Each person in the room felt an uneasy prickling on the back of their necks as they exchanged worried glances. The little girl’s voice, innocent yet eerily insistent, had pierced through the veil of grief that covered the assembly. Her words hung in the air, their weight growing ever heavier with each passing second.
As the guests stood in stunned silence, the widow, her face etched with the lines of fresh mourning, moved closer to her daughter. Her eyes, once glazed over with tears, now held a spark of urgency. Her hand trembled as she hovered over the child’s small frame, instinctively wanting to protect, yet equally drawn to the child’s surreal proclamation.
A murmur rippled through the mourners as they began to question the child’s words. Could it be the vivid imagination of a child unable to comprehend the finality of death? Or was it something more sinister, an intuition untamed by the logical constraints of adulthood?
